‘Papa,’ Helen was saying at her first opportunity, ’where has Mr. Howard been?’

‘I have no idea, my dear,’ said her father placidly.

’What!  You mean to tell me that you two have done all the talking you have, and that he hasn’t said a word about where he has been hiding himself all this week?’

‘Not a word.’

‘H’m,’ said Miss Helen, ‘that’s funny.’  And then, ’Papa, do you know if he has had trouble with anyone lately?’

‘What makes you ask that?’ he queried uneasily, and Helen sat straighter in the saddle and looked him full in the face.  For now she was positive that Alan had had trouble and that her father knew about it.

Longstreet hesitated.  He had no desire to recount his experience at Moraga’s saloon in Big Run.  He had judged himself fortunate since the affair that Helen had been so absorbed in her new environment that she had not thought to call upon him for an accounting of the family funds.  But even so, all along he had had a sort of fatalistic fear that in the end she would know everything; she always did.

‘Well,’ said Helen commandingly, ‘tell me all about it.’

‘Eh?’ He started guiltily.  ‘About what?’

‘About Mr. Howard’s trouble with another man.’

Then Longstreet told her what he must.  How, while he was with Barbee, a man named Jim Courtot had joined them.  How Howard had happened along, looking for him, and had said that Jim Courtot was no gentleman.  Ahem!—­he had said it very emphatically, very.  Longstreet did not recall the exact terms employed, but their purport was that Courtot was a crook and a—­a man-killer.  Courtot had whipped out a revolver, Howard had hurled himself upon him and had knocked him down.  Table and chairs were overturned, and at first Longstreet thought that Courtot was dead.  He was still unconscious when they left.

‘Table?’ said Helen.  ’And chairs?  Where were you?  In whose house?  For this didn’t happen at the hotel and there was no table in the store.’

‘In the—­the house of a man named Moraga, I believe,’ Longstreet answered hurriedly.

Helen looked at him severely.

‘A saloon, wasn’t it?’ she asked, quite as a school teacher may put a leading question to a squirming little boy.  When he did not answer immediately, Helen did not wait.

‘I think,’ she informed him judicially, ’that it will be better for you if I don’t lose sight of you in these cattle and mining towns after this.  And it would be a better thing for Mr. Howard if he did not frequent such places.’

‘But you sent him for me!’

Helen merely sniffed at him.  She was wondering if Jim Courtot really were a man-killer?  She shuddered.  Then she set her brain to work upon the name—­Jim Courtot.  It had a familiar ring; certainly she had heard it before.  She and her father rode on in silence.  She could hear Alan and Carr talking together again.  Suddenly she remembered.  It had been that afternoon when they went to Big Run.  The two men had spoken of Mrs. Murray, remarking that she was in town.  It had been Alan who had said on the heels of this remark: